Three
by LouRose87
Summary: "I'm okay." She attempted a chuckle before realising that it hurt too much, "All limbs, faculties and body parts are present and accounted for."


**Title: **Three

**Summary: **"But I'm okay." She attempted a chuckle before realising that it hurt too much, "All limbs, faculties and body parts are present and accounted for."

**A/N: **Thank you, once again, to all the lovely reviewers who took the time to post on my other two stories – not only am I new to this fandom but it's been a few years since I've written fic, so the reviews are very much appreciated.

Okay, so this one is a _tad_ more angsty but only very slightly.

Sadly, The Mentalist doesn't belong to me. But oh how I wish it did.

X

"Before you say anything, I'm fine."

She attempted a smile, probably less convincing than she had intended, thanks to the increasingly painful bruising to her ribs. Wordlessly, he hugged her as gently as possible and she let herself relax in his arms, his comforting strength around her, keeping her steady. He had looked like hell when he'd practically burst into the private hospital room, clearly uninformed about the status of her injuries – she could feel him lose the initial tension that she had felt in his body as he realised that she was still here, still alive, still okay. He pulled away from her, holding her face in his hands, his expression all seriousness and darkness, "I was worried."

"I know." She replied simply, unsure of what else to say, what other words (she doubted there were any) would appease fears that seemed to paralyse him. "But I'm okay." She attempted a chuckle before realising that it hurt too much, "All limbs, faculties and body parts are present and accounted for." She kissed him, briefly and almost chastely as he held her face tenderly (they were still on FBI time after all) and tapped the bed next to her, eager for him to sit down – talking was really beginning to hurt her head.

He didn't look convinced that she was fine– probably because of the cut to her cheek where one of the ridiculous car accessories that the FBI insisted on, had impacted her face. "Would have been nice for someone to have told me that…." He grumbled, moving to sit where she had indicated, his right hand immediately moving to take hers. "I probably broke about five different speed limits getting here."

She resisted the urge to laugh, knowing that the call probably was as succinct, and therefore terror inducing, as the FBI usually was with such incidents (_Lisbon. Accident. St Matthew's.)_ "Well, worry no more, okay?" She squeezed his hand, "I'm just waiting for the doctor to sign me out and then we can go home." She needed home; she needed her bed and really awful movies and food that was no good for her. "Abbott's given me…well, us….a few days off."

She had felt so uncomfortable as her boss had told her to stay out of the office, the question of Jane's whereabouts during the aforementioned days hung over the brief conversation until just before Abbott terminated the call – _"And keep Jane away from the building, okay? He'll be a nightmare here without you…" _– Abbott's voice had almost held a hint of humour and she'd hung up with a blush creeping over her.

"Excellent." His tone changed– she could feel him lighten next to her and his whole demeanour relaxed, probably because he knew that he would be able to keep a watchful eye over her and ensure that she was utilising the numerous boxsets that had been piling up next to her television. "You're going to have lots of rest and recuperation yes?"

She paused, nudging his arm with hers, their hands still entwined on her lap. "As long as you're there."

"Wouldn't be anywhere else." He replied softly and with that, she leant her head on his shoulder, her gaze falling on their joined hands. She started to stroke his thumb with her own and wondered how she had ever made it through before him. There, then, right at that moment, as they sat in comfortable silence, his warm, safe hand clasping her own, in room eight of ward thirteen in St Matthew's hospital, she realised she was in very deep.

After a few moments, the door creaked open and the same nurse she had encountered only an hour ago entered. Lisbon tried desperately to recall her name without peering too obviously at the faded name tag on her uniform; the nurse (was it Sheila? Trudy?...Or Mandy?) had been so enthusiastic and kind towards her that she felt a pang of guilt that she couldn't even remember the woman's name.

"Oh, hello!" The as-yet-unnamed nurse exclaimed upon noticing Jane's presence, "I didn't realise Ms Lisbon had a visitor…." She smiled genuinely at Patrick, her eyes darting towards their hands, "I take it you must be the boyfriend?"

"Er…yes, yes.." Jane nodded almost shyly, "I am he." _Boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend. _Her head rung with the word and she suppressed a smile.

"Well, it's nice to meet you," The nurse went to shake his hand, "I'm Tricia."

"Patrick." As the nurse and Jane made polite introductions, Lisbon stifled a sigh of relief at learning the nurse's name and decided that she would hold the bump to her head as accountable for her appalling memory recall.

"Well….." Tricia announced suddenly and Lisbon caught the end of a what she realised had clearly been a full blown conversation and that she had zoned out entirely – another thing she chose to blame on the brief (but she was sure was significant) blow to her head from the steering wheel. Tricia flicked through the pages on the clipboard and looked up with a smile, "Looks like everything here is all fine and dandy so you just need to go downstairs to see the doctor and you can be on your way."

"Is the doctor not up here?" She queried; she'd expected a brief check over from some vaguely interested doctor; her minor injuries didn't warrant any special attention though her status as an FBI agent certainly did.

"Oh, sorry, no…" The nurse replied in an apologetic tone, flicking through pieces of paper on the clipboard, "The OB-GYN department is on the third floor. Don't worry, I'm sure the baby's fine. They just like to make sure."

Tricia recounted to her husband later, retelling the stories of the day that night on the drive home, that watching the FBI agent and her boyfriend respond was like seeing a mirror image; the petite dark haired woman inadvertently synchronised with the reaction of her rather charming boyfriend. Neither of the pair moved (she had worried that they had stopped breathing at one point) until Tricia coughed, trying to break the strange tension of a couple who were clearly intelligent but seemed utterly bemused by the concept of pregnancy.

"Do you need some time?" Tricia asked eventually, unsure of whether she should have just slipped out of the room quickly and left the pair alone. She made a mental note to remember this for next time (there was always a next time as a nurse) because as polite as Agent Lisbon was, watching the pair, who were now looking meaningfully into each other's eyes (their gazes either indicative that they were going to have an emotionally charged argument or jump each other) the whole situation was just very awkward.

At Tricia's question, Patrick turned to face the nurse – there was an emotion showing in his expression that she couldn't quite be sure of – she saw melancholy (grief?) in his eyes. "Uh, no, no…it's fine." He moved to stand from his position, perched on the side of the bed – his girlfriend moved shortly afterwards, a slight wince as she stood, still clearly suffering the effects of the bruising.

"Downstairs, right?" The agent asked; her demeanour had changed, almost in an instant; detached, cool, professional and Tricia could suddenly see why she was in the employ of the FBI.

Tricia was slightly caught off guard by the transformation, "Um, yes, floor three – ask for Dr Turner."

And with that, the pair strode out, neither making contact with the other, it seemed that they were making almost a deliberate choice not to touch or communicate in any way. Tricia watched them down the sterile white tiled corridor; they walked in unison, their arms ever-so slightly touching as they paced away, heading to the elevator.

She was going to have a hell of a lot to tell her husband later.

X

They hadn't spoken for what felt like an age (three hours) and he was starting to worry. Worrying, panicking, general anxiety and rumination came easily to him – however, he had been less prone to such thoughts since he and Lisbon had brought their decade long torturous dance around their feelings to a close. He'd felt strangely at peace for the last nine months but the fact that she hadn't spoken to him for three hours and sixteen minutes was unsettling.

He knew where she was, of course. He could see her silhouette, sat on the veranda steps; a dark, elegant shape cast against the pink hues of the setting sun. He could practically feel the tension radiating from her as he hovered in the kitchen, tea in hand, where he could safely watch her, though far enough away to avoid a conversation that he had no idea how to start. He wanted to tell her it was fine, tell her everything was going to be okay and that they would make it through, hold her in his arms and yet…He had no idea that it was going to be okay or that it would be fine or that there would be a happy ending.

Almost mechanically, he placed his tea on the counter (it had gone cold an hour ago anyway, the act of holding it had provided only slim comfort to him) and opened the patio-style doors. The air was warm and heavy still, noises of the neighbourhood (cars, birdsong, _children_) murmured in the background of his awareness; he stood at the doorframe, staring intently at her back, willing the words to come to him (_words, any words_) before slowly moving to sit next to her on the awkward wooden steps. She didn't react to his presence, still in a daze of emotion and feeling that neither of them would be able to name. He took a brief gaze over her (pale face, tired eyes, tired heart) noting the unopened beer bottle in her hand.

"Don't worry…." Her voice was gravelly and heavy, "I'm not going to drink any."

He hadn't thought she would; she wasn't reckless, and certainly not with an innocent life; an innocent life that _they_ had created. They were both silent, watching the sunset and the sky slowly darken; his thoughts lingered over that innocent life, the child (_their_ child) that her body held; he tried to recognise, tried to name what he felt and found only confusion.

"Are we going to talk about this?" She said and he felt a twinge of regret that he had not been the one to initiate communication. It was always she, rational and grown up Lisbon, that made the first move. Even now, even with more than what he could have hoped for over the last ten years (her in his life, in his bed, in _their_ home) he would still retreat and wait. Always waiting.

He sighed with the weight of the emotional exhaustion that he felt. "Think we're going to have to." He replied, unsure of where to start and that the beginning felt like the right place but he couldn't quite identify where that was, where all of this began, where they had turned into this. The physical space between them felt like a gulf and his heart hurt with the intensity of everything that filled it.

"I don't know what to say." She admitted and her voice waivered as though it were going to crack. She ran restless fingers through her dark mane of hair, the beer bottle discarded at her feet and she leant forward, her forearms on her thighs, watching out intently over the garden as if it provided answers to questions she could not bear to ask. "I don't even know how this happened…." She muttered under her breath with another sigh, "We have been _so_ careful."

"Colorado." He said simply with the same quietness of voice. He had surprised her with a long weekend at the slopes last month and had been rewarded in kind (_against the door of the cabin, hands everywhere and they were powerless to resist;, he lifted her petite body with strong arms, she wrapped her legs around his waist, "right now" she whispered against his lips and he was happy to oblige_)

He knew she was smiling at the memory, could feel it even without seeing the suppressed smirk that was definitely there. "Oh." Her tone was lighter, he knew she wanted to touch him, feel his hand intertwined with hers. It almost felt like physical pain to have her so close but being unable to bridge a self-made impenetrable abyss.

The memories lingered over them as a veil of silence yet again. He didn't bring his gaze to look at her once, afraid of what would greet him, what he would see there, and afraid of it's potential to tear him to pieces. He tried to concentrate, to formulate his thoughts into something comprehendible, that would make sense. "What do you want to do?" He asked, the words slipping out into the solemn air that had drifted over them.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. She had made him light and happy and all the feelings that he had thought he no longer had the ability to possess; she was having his child and everything was wrong. He'd imagined how he would do it so many times, how they would create their perfect little life that he still doubted he would ever really deserve (_she would say yes with tears in her eyes and it would be perfect_) he'd envisaged a quiet morning, her shy announcement with bed hair and delight that they were going to be parents; it never looked like this.

"I can't do this on my own." Her voice was so tinged with sadness that it almost immobilised him.

"You're not." He said simply, defiantly. There was no other way.

At last, she finally turned to face him and her expression (all sadness and confusion and yet, hope) "I can't do this on my own." She repeated and his heart lurched, "I can't do this if you're going to leave me again."

And the light switch flicked and the bulb illuminated.

"You think I'm going to get scared and run." He stated and he felt everything leave his body. He hated himself in that moment; he had turned her into someone who didn't trust the one person she should have trusted above anyone else.

"Isn't that what this is?" Her eyes welled and she didn't brush them away when they fell. "Isn't this you getting scared already?" (Her unformed words screamed out over them; _I saw your reaction, your face told me everything and I know you better than you know yourself_)She didn't leave a moment for him to respond, her breath hitching, "And then what if it's…what if it's a…."

Girl.

He knew. She didn't have to say. So she didn't. It remained unsaid and she faced the sunset with her tears.

He cast his hand through his unruly hair and watched the same sunset.

"I want to marry you."

There should have been a ring and a beach and a vintage car and a million of the things he had imagined there to be.

"I want to marry you." He repeated and he reached for her hand; it felt so small and petite in his own and he never wanted to let go. He looked down at their joined hands as he continued, stroking her pale digits with his thumb, "You kept me alive, you know that? All those years, it was you." He moved to glance at her face, her eyes full of something he couldn't quite place. "What we have…it's everything to me. You have to know that. Promise me you know that…." She nodded and sniffed and still the tears fell. "And I am scared. I'm scared that I'm finally getting what I've wanted for longer than I remember." He sighed and it sounded like pain and grief and excitement and a million emotions that overwhelmed him. "I don't understand how I'm allowed to be this happy again…."

She moved her hand to his face, combed through his hair and he closed his eyes in response, grateful for her soft touch, grateful for a moment to rid himself of the memories of death and mourning and the lives that he had ruined. "You don't have to understand it." She said softly and he opened his eyes, their faces so close that he felt the air leave her lips as she spoke. "But we need you." Her voice was heavy and emotion laced every word.

_We._

"Marry me."

And as her lips pressed against his, he knew everything would be okay.

X

He had asked her again.

And she had said yes again.

And forty days later, she had said "I do" (_Van Pelt beaming, Rigsby with his arm round her, Cho as unreadable as ever_) in a dress that skimmed her slight bump and he wore a suit that was far too new and a shirt that itched his neck.

He couldn't quite remember being happier.

X

"How about Desdemona?"

"No."

"Lavinia?"

"Nope."

"Ophelia?"

"Okay, can we not name our daughter after women that are mutilated and/or die a tragic death?"

She grinned in spite of herself at his suggestions as she looked up at him, propped up on his elbow, the duvet loosely wrapped around them, their little girl fast asleep on her chest who currently her thumb firmly placed inside her little mouth, snoring occasionally. His other arm snaked around her hips (always touching, always needing to be close) and she felt as if her heart would burst. He leant down to kiss her, only a brief press of their lips together but it spoke volumes (of love, of commitment, of forever) and she almost missed his next words.

"What about Hannah?"

She touched their daughter's soft hair, unable to believe that this was real, that she lived _this _life – a mother, a wife. All the pain, denial, repression suddenly seemed so worth it with his warm, strong body next to her, worshipping the ground she walked on and their baby, a child she never let herself dream of, asleep and safe.

"I like it." She sidled closer into his chest, relishing every contact with him, even now. "How do you like that little one?" She craned her neck to sneak a look at her daughter's rosy face, "Do you feel like a Hannah?" Lisbon's hand moved to stroke the chubby hand that gripped onto her pyjama top; her skin was so soft, so perfect. The little girl sniffled in response to the contact and she took it as a "yes."

"Hannah it is." He slowly moved to lay down in the sheets, his arms adjusting to encompass her and Hannah, his gaze falling to the little girl still snoring on her mother's chest. "Hannah Jane, welcome to the world."

X

**A/N 2:** This is sort-of-kinda-almost-prequel to "Tell Her". Or it can be seen as a standalone, whichever you prefer.


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